


Ten-Thousand Miles in the Mouth of a Graveyard

by jld_az



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: A brief POV from Leo Westwood, in the final weeks of the Patternfall War.Title from 'A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall' by Bob Dylan
Kudos: 2





	Ten-Thousand Miles in the Mouth of a Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Liberty She Pirouette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731828) by [jld_az](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az). 



“How long would you say we've been here?” Leo asked.

Eoin shrugged one shoulder and, without looking up from the fan of cards in his hand, replied, “I don't know. Three weeks, maybe?”

“Feels like three months,” Captain Parker grumbled around his unlit cigar. He tossed a couple of red-and-white mints into an overturned cap in the center of the table. “Colours over Crosses.”

“So, long enough that this monstrosity should have a name?” Leo squared his cards with a smirk before pitching in some toffees. “Crowns over Sevens.”

“We're stuck on ‘Downriver’,” Eoin said. Yellow butterscotches joined the mix. “Colours over Spears.”

Sean immediately threw in another few mints. “Bullshit.”

Eoin raised an eyebrow on an otherwise blank expression, and matched the bet. “Try me.”

“As in 'Up and Downriver'?” Leo asked, referencing the old children’s song about matching and sharing. Eoin gave him a lopsided grin and Leo snorted, shaking his head. “That's pretty pathetic, Lewison.”

“Hasn't stopped you from coming over to play, though.” He slapped the chest of the man to his right. “Pharris, your bet.”

The Vert’s head jerked up with a sharp intake. He scanned the table with glazed eyes, unfolded his arms just long enough to toss his cards toward the dealer, and waved a dismissive hand as his neck once again arched over the back of his chair.

“Out,” he said.

The other three exchanged looks.

“I take it back.” Leo pointed. _"That_ is pathetic.”

“You sayin’ you're still in, Westwood?” Sean asked.

“Hardly, Parker. If you're both showing Colours, my Crowns are busted.” Leo squared his cards again, and set them down. “Out.”

“Just you and me then, Major.” Rolling his cigar between his teeth from left side to right, Sean jerked his chin at Eoin. “Set?”

The flap of the tent parted, and a hot, arid wind blew in on the heels of four uniformed men. Without another word, Captain Parker put his cards back in the deck, and got up from the table, kicking Captain Pharris's chair on the way by. Grunting low, the man uncoiled to his feet, and the pair moved to collect their patrol gear.

“What's the word, Üdele?” Eoin asked, trading his cards for a toffee as he stood.

All but one of the men filed past, and he replied, “None, Sir. But if I may speak freely?”

Eoin nodded. “Of course, Petra.”

The squadron leader relaxed his posture, and gave Leo a chin-up in peripheral greeting.

“A lot of the men are getting restless,” he said, his attention returning to his CO. “They want to know what the hold-up is, and I haven't got a straight answer to give them.”

“Wish I had one for you,” Eoin admitted. “Don’t bury the lede though, Petra. How serious are we talking?”

“If you asked for a scout party right now, I think they'd beat the shit out of each-other just to volunteer.”

Leo leaned back in his seat and folded his arms; watched the current Vert Field Commander consider this before he nodded.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Major Lewison said. “Dismissed.”

“Sir,” the Vert saluted, and moved away. Leo waited until he was well out of earshot before speaking.

“Can’t say as I blame them.”

The waiting was the hardest part.

At first they’d welcomed the downtime, even if the country where they got it was desolate, and the climate unpredictable. But after fighting their way across the Shadows - losing pockets of reserves in the process, unable to establish lasting communications with the Homefront, and knowing full well that the end of the journey lay in the Court of an enemy whose numbers were yet unknown - suddenly finding themselves idle after so much buildup was slowly driving some of them to the breaking point. Still, enough of the others had adopted healthy ways to entertain themselves, thus keeping the army en toto from going completely bugshit when they weren’t running drills, or performing any of the countless mind-numbing daily tasks which kept things moving smoothly.

Eoin swiped at his face, and ran his fingers back through his hair in mild exasperation. “This is fucking miserable. I don’t know how Tristan kept the JTF guys from losing their minds for three months.” He cycled a deep breath then, and looked around the tent. “Have you heard from him at all?”

“Not in a few days,” Leo replied, just as low. “You?”

Eoin dropped his hands into his pockets, and shook his head. “How're things with the Cav?”

“Same as everywhere else. Nerves stretched thin, troops on edge, and horses dropping pounds by the day.” He glanced at his watch then, and added, “Speaking of, I should get headed back.”

Leo stood, gathering his hat and sunglasses. Eoin held out a fist as he did.

“Good hunting, Leo,” he said.

Leo slicked his hair back under his cap, and donned his shades before tapping his AOFC ring against the other’s. “You too, Eoin.”

* * *

Night had descended by the time Leo reached the CavFOB. The camp was quiet and, with some time yet before moonrise, dark. He gave his password to the Officer of the Watch, and headed north to the Officer's Pickett; dismounted, and tied his mare to the line; removed the bay’s tack and rubbed her down; winced at how dull her coat looked, and how lean she was becoming. Saddle propped on his hip, Leo tossed her an extra flake of hay, and stroked her jaw before heading to his tent.

Temperatures in the region dropped sharply with the sun, and Leo hunched his shoulders while silently admonishing himself for failing to bring a jacket. Luckily he'd left his tent closed while he was out, and the heat of the day had warmed its confines nicely. He set his gear on the rack just inside the entryway before lighting a lamp; stripped out of his tac gear, washed up in the basin, and dressed for bed. He had a quick meal of jerky and cheese, then stretched out on his cot with a borrowed serial by J. Vaughn Monrow.

If there was one thing he disliked about his current assignment, it was this — the solitary time that came at the end of the day. Not that he didn't get on with the other Cavalry officers; they knew and respected him, and a majority of them rode horses that had been bred In Trust by his family’s estate. But he was also the first Westwood to abstain from joining the Cav, choosing instead to enlist as a Ranger, then take that path to its highest pinnacle by becoming a Rowan Vert. And this made him enough of a ‘traitor’ that most of the branch commanders outside of his unit kept their distance.

Had anyone asked (and ordered him to be truthful), Leo would have admitted that - after seven months - he was becoming almost as homesick for his Vert brothers as he was for Amber and his wife.

Leo turned the page, blinked, made a face and turned back. Turned back again. After a third page he located something familiar, and with a sigh marked the place with a strip of ribbon. He set the book aside, and massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and middle finger. Eventually he got out of bed, stepped into his trainers, and pulled on his robe. He walked outside.

The moon was a silver thumbnail to the east, an upside-down Cheshire cat grin. Hands in his pockets, he watched it climb slowly over the distant peaks and, not for the first time, had the comforting but irrational thought that somewhere across the Shadows, his Margie could be doing the same thing.

“Trying to stare down the moon again, Westwood?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose as Sagr emerged from the darkness on silent hooves.

“If at first,” he said.

The golden bay gelding halted in front of him, and reached out to nuzzle his shoulder in greeting. Leo tugged on his platinum forelock as a tiny orange flame sparked to life, flared, then died above the horse's back.

“Can't sleep?” he asked.

“Don't sleep,” Aunna replied.

“You used to just fine.”

The ember of her cigarette glowed brightly; then, “Things change.”

Leo, who had long ago gotten used to her particular brand of conversation, looked up toward her with a wry smile. “And the more they do, the more they stay the same.”

It got a chuckle out of her, and that was reward enough. Sagr lowered his head to tug at the sparse grass around Leo's feet, and he could see her then, stretched out along her horse's spine, eyes to the sky.

“Any word yet from Command?” he asked.

She rolled her head "no" across Sagr's rump, holding one arm out to the side, and pinching the ember off her cigarette before tucking the remains into her pocket as she exhaled.

“Just like old times,” she said, with evident sarcasm.

“I don't know,” Leo replied. “I'd like to think we've done more than take the long way back to square one.”

Aunna stared at him for a long moment. Then she sat up, and nodded toward his tent.

“You got anything to drink in there?”

He laughed lowly. “Nothing of proof, if that's what you're after.”

“Did you come to war dry, or run out along the way?”

“Gave it to Eoin for his birthday,” Leo said. “Or as close as I could figure to it. Haven't gotten much opportunity to replace it since.”

“That was magnanimous of you, considering the state of things.” He could see her smiling this time. “I've a bottle of Glen Ord I was saving for the end of this soirée. Thirty-eight years in an oak barrel. At this rate, it'll be as old as we are by the time we get there, though.” Aunna tugged on a handful of Sagr's mane, and the horse stopped grazing; started walking toward her tent. “Open invitation, since I still hate to drink alone.”

* * *

He changed back into casual clothes before joining her in a nightcap.

Her tent had fewer articles than his, yet a great deal less space due to the fact that Sagr occupied half of it. She cracked open the bottle without preamble, and poured them both a healthy dose; raised hers to him in an abbreviated, one-word toast.

“Slàintate.”

Leo tapped her glass with his. “And yours.”

They sipped. It warmed his insides like only the best malt whiskey could.

Three glasses later, they called Tristan to see if he was available to join them; but the colonel didn't answer.

By mid-bottle, they moved back outside, and hunkered down on throw pillows like Deigans. Because her horse's snoring was impossible to talk over.

They sat on opposite sides of the doorway at first, but eventually ended up side-by-side, and then he had an arm around her shoulders, and she had an arm on his leg, and there was genuine laughter…

…and for one brief moment, there was A Moment. Hot and laden with the ghost of their past, it hovered between them almost tangible.

Then Aunna smiled - a sad, lonely expression he'd never seen on her before - and eased away. Leo cycled a breath, and withdrew his arm at the same time. She picked up the empty bottle, and got to her feet. He followed suit, dusting off the pillow before handing it to her. She accepted with a low “thanks”, and set it inside the door with the other before facing him again.

“I hope he knows what he has,” Leo said. There was no bitterness. Only heartfelt truth.

“Margorie is a lucky woman.” Aunna rose up onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Leo.”

* * *

The next afternoon, they got the advancement orders they'd been waiting for.

There would be [one last stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853681) en route. One final opportunity to shower, and wash, and amass their numbers — in _actual_ buildings, with _actual_ beds.

* * *

Three days, fourteen hours after that, and the war was over.

It was luck of placement that spared Leo from the blast that leveled most of the 9th Cav. He'd been at the head of a flanking group, far east of the central charge. The shockwave had sent him high up onto his mare’s neck when she'd skidded to a halt, then leapt back from the shifting ground, but there'd been nothing to do except hail for reformation, and spur on.

Now though, as he walked the smoking crater, he realized that while the ringing in his ears was painful, by comparison he was one of the fortunate few. Everywhere he looked he saw the scorched remains of those he'd spent the last eight months with: men and horses alike, reduced to brittle bone and ash. He trod carefully, collecting tags and rings to identify the dead for their families.

His mind was foggy from concussion and shock, so he didn’t fully register the call coming in until it had already connected.

“Leo.” The voice inside his head came a brief moment before the illusion, and he shook himself into fuller awareness. “We've found Tristan.”

“Bless,” Leo exhaled with relief. “Where is he?”

“En route to MedCorps.” Beneath the dirt and blood, Eoin's face was pale and bruised. “Those bastards tore him up something awful, Leo. He's unresponsive, but alive. Anyone else would've been dead outright.”

From a distance above and to the left, Leo heard a strange sound - fierce and territorial - followed by the shouts of several people. He handed his collection of items through the contact.

"Thanks, Eoin," he said.

The other nodded as he accepted the identifiers. The connection closed, and Leo made his way up the slope toward the commotion.

At first all he saw through the violet light was a small knot of people several yards away, cautiously closing ranks around a loose horse. It was clear the animal was injured: its hind end bobbled when it swung around, and there was an obvious reluctance to move very far.

But then light broke through the smoke and ruin, illuminating the metallic sheen of the horse's sweat-streaked, soot-covered coat as he lifted his head high, and bellowed again. The sound had barely died when Sagr laid his ears flat and snaked forward, the group shuffling back as his teeth snapped audibly across the distance.

“Stand down!” Leo hailed, rushing forward. A few of them turned, and when they did he saw the whole picture. “Stand down!” he shouted again. “ _Stand! Down!”_

The circle parted at his approach to reveal a morbid tableau at its center: Sagr, loyal to a fault, stood wobbling and exhausted on three good legs over the motionless form of his rider, who knelt pinned to the spot with a sword through her chest.

“Goddess among us,” he breathed.

Turning to the group, he tasked one with finding a medic, and two with locating Prince Julian. The fourth - a member of the VetCorps - he asked to stay, but to stand back. He then focused his attention on the horse, and took a steadying breath.

Sagr's eyes rolled white, and he ground his teeth, neck stretched low and ears flat against his head. His gut was tucked up, his sides heaving, and rivulets of sweat had turned soot to sludge that pooled in the creases between his ribs. A large portion of his hindquarter looked flayed, hair singed clean off from croup to gaskin, point of hip to buttock. The pitted skin left behind was raw and dark, sloughing off even as he stood there, and his tail was a short black inversion of the long platinum it had once been. He held the leg aloft, but the joints hung unnaturally loose as he stretched the limb up, forward, down…

“Sagr,” Leo said, approaching cautiously. He racked his brain for one of Aunna's Deigan phrases, finally coming up with, “ _Háu khola_ , Sagr.” The gelding lifted his head a bit, one ear flicking. Leo held a hand toward him, palm down. “ _Mushtae_ ,” he continued. “ _Mushtae_.”

At that, the horse nickered lowly, ears pitching forward, then flopping to the side in rare supplication. He touched the man's outstretched fingers with his nose, and heaved a groaning sigh. Leo moved forward without further hesitation; stroked his neck, and removed his broken saddle. He used a stirrup leather to fashion a makeshift halter to replace the missing bridle, and turned to the VetCorp, who gave him a pained expression as she shook her head.

“I don’t know how he’s even _standing_ _,_ ” she breathed as she closed in. “He’s clearly in distress, Sir. Third-degree burns, extensive nerve damage, and that leg is broken in at least four places. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do short of…”

Leo looked at the horse again as the woman trailed off, and his heart broke. He nodded, and stroked the gelding’s forelock.

“Do what you have to, Sergeant,” he said.

The woman eyed her charge sorrowfully as she nodded, and she reached into one of her pouches; produced a hypodermic, and a small vial of pale pink liquid.

Leo moved to one side, and curled his arms around the gelding’s head, blocking his view from the approaching injection. He stroked the golden bay face, and murmured soothing praises; watched the maple-hued eye glass over, then slide closed. He followed the horse to the ground when the sedative kicked in, then his massive lungs drew in a final breath, and stilled. The VetCorps NCO took a cursory check of the horse’s vitals, then clutched Leo’s shoulder, and left.

Fingers brushing one last time across the gelding's jowl, Leo turned to Aunna then. And although he didn't think it possible, his heart sank even further.

Because _she’d_ been run through with her own sabre. And now that he’d seen it in action, he knew Feüermede was no ordinary blade. It had power on a Primal level, and the survivability of such a blow was improbable.

He took a moment to steel himself before checking for a pulse. 

“Did we win?”

Leo lowered his hand, momentarily startled. “Technically.”

She twitched a smile, and lifted her bloodshot eyes to him.

“The others?” Her expression was pleading, full of a broken hope that struck him as a distant echo of Ghenesh.

“Save your strength,” Leo deflected. “MedCorps on the way.”

She fell silent again, and her eyes closed. He cast a desperate look around for a medic, then leaned forward, and rested his forehead against her temple.

“It’s going to be ok,” he murmured into her ear, his chest hitching. “Just .. it’s going to be ok.” And he didn’t know if he was talking to her, or to himself.

Aunna sighed; whimpered.

“If anybody’s gonna put up with me, he's it.”

Her words were an exhalation. His words were strangled in his throat.

Then,

“Hey, Leo." Her voice was clear and strong, as though continuing a conversation they'd been having all along. “You and Margie better make lotsa sprogs, savvy?”

He felt her smile when he laughed wetly against her cheek, but she said nothing else. Her body went limp in his hands. When he eased back to look at her, lifeless eyes met his gaze.

Leo remained as he was for a silent spell: incapable of reaction, lost in the moment.

Then he sagged forward, and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> While this story is technically a sidebar, it _is_ part of the 'And We Are Merely Players' arc, which continues with [The Distance to Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972542), if you care to read on.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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